"'Proud to be Frogs.'"
"That's what Chiun says, too."
"No French vessel would possess such a name."
"This one did."
"You have prisoners?"
"Had. He got away. His own people wasted him."
"What did you get out of him?" asked Smith in a sharp voice.
"'Ga to hell, bloody Yank.' Unquote."
"No Frenchman would say 'Yank.' He would say 'anglo.'"
"You know better than me," said Remo. "His accent wasn't particularly French, either. It was more Irish or Scottish."
"Which? Irish or Scottish?" asked Smith eagerly.
"Search me."
"Was it a brogue or a burr?"
Remo's forehead wrinkled up. "I know what a brogue is, but what's a burr?"
"Scotsmen speak in a burr. Irishmen affect a brogue. Was what you heard a brogue?"
"Kinda."
"You must be certain, Remo. This is important. If it was not a brogue, it must have been a burr."
"You'd have to hum a few bars."
Smith made a noise in his throat.
"No, it wasn't like that."
"I was not attempting a burr," Smith test testily. "I was clearing my throat."
"Whatever you were doing, it was kinda in the ballpark, but not exactly right."
"Never mind," said Smith, his voice tart.
"Listen, Smitty," Remo continued, "the sub went down with all hands. They could have saved themselves but they didn't want to."
"Only a very determined crew chooses death over capture."
"We're looking at professionals, all right."
Smith was silent for the better part of a minute. "Return to land," he finally snapped.
"Can't. We're still on search-and-rescue duty."
"I will fix that."
"That's up to you. Want me to hand the phone over to Lieutenant Queeg here?"
"No," Smith said sharply. "I will do this through channels."
Less than fifteen minutes later the radio call came from the Coast Guard air station at Cape Cod.
"We've been ordered to return to port," Sparks reported.
"The way this wind is picking up, I'm surprised you could hear them through all that static," Sandy remarked, casting a weather eye toward the cumulus clouds that scudded across the sky like a flock of dirty scared sheep.
"What static?" asked Sparks.
"I'll show you."
In the radio shack Sandy tried to raise Cape Cod. She was having trouble being heard over the ball of crumpled paper she was holding up to the mike.
"Say again?" she shouted "I'm getting interference."
"If that's static, I'm a penguin," a voice called back.
"I can't hear you."
"Then stop squeezing whatever it is you're squeezing."
"Coast Guard Station Cape Cod. Come in, Cape Cod. You're breaking up. This is CGC Cayuga Come in, Cape Cod."
"Your passengers are urgently required on land, Heckman, and if my ass is in a sling over this, your ass is in an even bigger sling," a radio voice barked.
At the radio shack door, Remo said, "We're in no big rush."
Sandy snapped off the radio set. "Make sure that's your story when we make landfall."
"You're a real grateful sailor."
"I'm a professional on a search-and-rescue mission who's wondering what the hell is going on out here."
"You know as much as we do," said Remo.
Back on deck the wind was biting. As they raced through the turbulent green-gray waters, Sandy took up a bow position and was scanning the threatening horizon with her binoculars.